A Darker Place

by Jack Higgins

  “Heaven forbid that I should think such a thing.”

  “Is this business or pleasure?”

  “Very much business, my friend. This could be a very big payday for you.”

  “Well, just let me fix this, and then we’ll have a drink and you can tell me all about it.”

  Suddenly, with incredible speed and as if it were a game, he put the pieces of the Luger together. Bounine was amazed. “That was truly remarkable.”

  “What would you know? You GRU guys sit on your arses in some Embassy office.”

  “Major Bounine was a paratrooper in Afghanistan and also served in Chechnya,” Luzhkov informed him.

  “Really?” Ali Selim turned to Bounine and extended his hand. “Now, that I respect. A man who went to Afghanistan and came back in one piece I truly respect. Sit down and we’ll have a drink. I’ll be back in a moment.”

  He went out, and Bounine said, “Quite a character.”

  “A killer of the first water. Served Al Qaeda in Iraq and Beirut. He makes big money in the drug business running heroin along the Thames. He still has family links back in Afghanistan, which helps with the poppy trade.” His mobile sounded and he answered. He held it out to Bounine. “It’s Greta. You take it on deck. I’ll handle Ali.”

  Bounine went up and stood under a canopy in the rain. “Tell me,” he ordered.

  “It is a riverboat, a new one built a couple of years ago, called the Garden of Eden. It is very luxurious, three decks, a bit tropical in its ambience.”

  “Sounds like a floating conservatory. Where will it be?”

  “Cadogan Pier, Chelsea. They’ll have their discussion, then their joyride past the House of Commons, and disembark at Westminster Pier. Preparations have already started.”

  “Good, I’ll be in touch.”

  Bounine went back to the cabin and found that Ali Selim had still not returned. He quickly told Luzhkov what Greta had said.

  “When we’re driving back to the Embassy, we could take a look,” Luzhkov said. “It’s near Cheyne Walk.” He nodded, thinking about it. “It wouldn’t surprise me if they got their heads together before boarding the boat.”

  “Who knows?” Bounine said, and Ali Selim came in.

  “Is everything all right, my friend?” Luzhkov asked.

  “A little stomach trouble. Nothing a large cognac won’t cure.” He drank one at the bar, then poured another. “Anyone else?” There were no takers. “So let’s get on with it. What’s the game?”

  “The half-a-million-pound kind of game,” Luzhkov said.

  Ali Selim didn’t even blink. He swallowed the second cognac, put down the glass, and leaned on the bar. “Okay, tell me everything.”

  So Luzhkov nodded to Bounine.

  AFTERWARD, BOUNINE SAID, “I realize what a hopeless proposition this must sound. Between the British Security Services and the Vice President’s Secret Service men-let alone Israeli and Palestinian security-getting on the boat would be a nightmare.”

  “One couldn’t even plant a bomb on board,” Luzhkov said. “They’ll go over the Garden of Eden with a fine-tooth comb.”

  “And find nothing,” Bounine said.

  “Because the bomb’s elsewhere.” Ali Selim nodded. “Come with me.”

  He led the way up the companionway and stood under the canopy, rain pouring down. “Have a look over there.” He pointed to the large orange motorboat with the huge outboard. “I call that Running Dog, and her speed would amaze you. Some lifeboat stations use them as rescue boats, and the River Police have a few on the Thames.”

  “So what are you suggesting?” Luzhkov asked.

  Selim turned and pointed down at the other boats moored with the canvas covers. “One of these loaded with Semtex would do it. Sink the Garden of Eden like a stone.”

  “Come off it,” Bounine said. “You’d need a suicide bomber to do that. This isn’t Baghdad.”

  “I’d arrive while it’s tacking out into the river. I’ll cast off the motorboat so it can’t help but collide. Since it will be carrying seventy pounds of Semtex with short-time pencil fuses, it will blow the Garden of Eden to kingdom come.”

  Luzhkov looked at him in awe. “And what about you?”

  “What about me? I sink the Running Dog in some run-down dockland area, await events, and vanish if necessary with your half-million pounds to comfort me. I’ll be fine. I always make out.”

  Bounine said, “And the Vice President and the others? This doesn’t bother you, not even the President of Palestine?”

  “Fuck him, Major, who cares? It’s a lousy world. People live and die because these politicians push the pieces around on some gigantic chessboard.”

  He led the way down to the cabin again, went to the bar, made a face, almost as if he were in pain, and poured another cognac.

  “That’s better,” he said. “Was there anything else?”

  “Yes,” Bounine said. “You mentioned seventy pounds of Semtex. That’s an astonishing amount. Can you get it at such short notice?”

  Ali turned, dropped to one knee, and pulled a khaki-colored canvas holdall from a cupboard behind the bar. His strength obvious, he lifted it and dropped it on the bar. He unzipped and opened it, and there was the Semtex neatly stacked in blocks, each covered by greasy paper. On top was a large tin. He opened it.

  “Pencil timers. See for yourself.”

  “Excellent,” Luzhkov said. “Everything appears to be in perfect order.”

  “Call me when you have the exact departure time. Now I’ve got things to do, so go.”

  Bounine said, “You haven’t made arrangements for the delivery of the half million. Aren’t you worried?”

  “Why would I be?” Ali Selim glanced at Luzhkov. “This old bastard knows I’ll cut his balls off if he crosses me.”

  “A TRULY FRIGHTENING MAN,” Luzhkov said as they drove away.

  “You can say that again,” Bounine said. “Back to the Embassy?”

  “Cadogan Pier, Chelsea, first and let’s see if there’s any action.”

  At that early hour, the streets were quiet and there were many private residences around the pier area, but they paused close enough to see the Garden of Eden tied up at the pier, many lights on. There were men working, particularly at the main boarding point.

  “That’s a portable electronic arch they’re putting up,” Bounine said. “Everyone will have to pass through it for security. It’ll be the same for the stern area where the crew join the ship or supplies are taken aboard.”

  Luzhkov nodded. “It will be as tight as a sardine can. I expected no less. Back to the Embassy.”

  KURBSKY HAD GONE back to his room over the garage for the moment and was sitting on the bed. It had been a couple of hours since his confession in the conservatory. It had been terribly distressing, the whole business, particularly for Svetlana, and now he had retired to think about it in the cold light of dawn.

  His anger was profound, every instinct in him wishing to strike back at those who had placed him where he was. The DVD showing Tania must have been rigged from old footage when she was still alive. It was inconceivable that Putin hadn’t been fully aware of that. He could not believe that his friend, Yuri Bounine, would have known, surely not that, but Luzhkov must have.

  One thing was certain. Sitting here and staring at the wall wasn’t going to do any good. He got up, removed his bathrobe and pajama jacket, and examined his arm. Hitesh had done an excellent job. What a fine doctor he would make. It didn’t hurt, it just felt numb, so he took two of the special painkillers Hitesh had provided, found the bulletproof vest, and managed to pull it on.

  He cut the left sleeve off one of the khaki shirts with breast pockets on either side, useful for his mobiles, and hurried the rest of the dressing, pulling on the French paratroopers’ boots last, fitting the gutting knife in the right. He pulled on his knitted hat and looked in the mirror at the strange man he had become. He found no answer there, got his bag, went down to the garage and
threw it in the Ford, then called Bounine.

  BACK AT THE Embassy, Bounine had tried to pull himself together after his nocturnal activities by taking a hot shower and finding a change of clothes for the active day he suspected lay ahead.

  He answered his phone at once, and Kurbsky said, “You’re probably the best friend I have in the world, so prove that friendship by telling me the truth.”

  “But I believe I always have, Alex. What is this?”

  “What if I told you Roper has succeeded in breaking into the secret files of Station Gorky and has discovered that my sister, Tania, was sentenced to life in perpetuity in 1989?”

  “Yes, but you knew that, it was in the file with the DVD.”

  “The Putin file. You defended him to me, I remember, said it had all happened before his time.”

  “Look, Alex, where is this leading?”

  “To my sister’s death from typhoid on March 7, 2000.” There was a moment of stillness. “He lied, Yuri, our beloved Prime Minister lied, and whoever put the file together lied. Was it just handed over to Luzhkov? Is it conceivable the bastard didn’t know?”

  “I didn’t, old friend, on my mother’s soul I didn’t know. What are you going to do?”

  “The big question is what Ferguson and his people are going to do. I’ve done plenty already. Killed Vronsky, the three lads on the midnight express, that bastard Basayev and his minder. And I sorted out Oleg and Petrovich.”

  “So it was you?”

  “I couldn’t tell you before when I was still supposed to be earning Tania’s freedom.”

  “What are you going to do? Couldn’t you do some sort of deal with Ferguson?”

  “You realize I’m the invisible man? I don’t exist. Theoretically, they could lock me up and throw away the key.”

  “Damn it, Alex, you’re still Alexander Kurbsky.”

  “Whoever that is. Who does Luzhkov think shot Oleg?”

  “He’s convinced it was Sean Dillon. He’s incensed, Alex. Packing Johnson off to Siberia was going to be an unexpected gift to Putin.”

  “I can see how it would upset him.”

  “He’s gone slightly crazy. He’s been ranting like an old-fashioned Communist, talking about causing chaos and disorder in the West, overthrowing capitalism.”

  “Careful, Comrade,” Kurbsky told him. “Don’t tell me too much. I’m an enemy of the State, remember.”

  And Bounine, who had been on the verge of telling him of the night’s adventures with Luzhkov, hesitated and drew back.

  “So what are you going to do, Alex?”

  “I haven’t the slightest idea, Yuri, but I’d better get moving. I imagine Charles Ferguson will be sending somebody to arrest me at any moment. I’m surprised they haven’t already. I’ll go to ground somewhere.”

  “What do I say to Luzhkov?”

  “Tell the bastard it wasn’t Dillon, it was me, and tell him how things have worked out. To hell with Putin and to hell with Boris Luzhkov for what he’s done to me.”

  He pocketed his phone and turned to find Katya leaning on the door, arms folded. “How long have you been there?” he asked.

  “Long enough. Who’s Yuri?”

  “My best friend and comrade from Afghanistan and Chechnya. He’s one of the good guys. When I got involved in this whole mess, I asked for him to be transferred from Dublin because I wanted a friend I could trust. He’s a major, and Luzhkov’s right-hand man.”

  “Really-and your friend?”

  “He thinks Luzhkov is rubbish.”

  “So where are you going now?”

  “I’ll hide myself somewhere and give myself some time.”

  “I think you should simply walk to Holland Park, sit down, and talk it through.”

  “That’s not on my agenda, I’m afraid. For all you know, I might decide to wait in the street one rainy night and shoot Boris Luzhkov in the head. What a wonderful thought.”

  He opened the garage door, and she moved and caught his sleeve. “Please, Alex, don’t go.”

  He shook his head and gently removed her hand. “Don’t waste your time on me, Katya. I’m a dead man walking.”

  It was a terrible thing to say, and she took an involuntary step back. He got behind the wheel of the van and drove away.

  BOUNINE SOUGHT LUZHKOV out and found him in his office. “Ah, there you are, Yuri,” Luzhkov said. “I’ve just had confirmation of the timing. One hundred guests will be arriving between noon and half past. Cocktails and a buffet. The four gentlemen involved arrive at one, which indicates, as we thought, that they will already have had most of their discussions. The Garden of Eden will slip its mooring at one-thirty, sail past the House of Commons, and passengers will disembark at Westminster Pier.”

  “Have you informed Ali Selim of all this?”

  “I’ve just come off the phone. He seems very happy, but then, he’s that kind of man. A hunter scenting his prey.”

  “Perhaps, but I’ve something to tell you of great importance.”

  “Perhaps it can wait, this other matter-”

  Bounine cut in. “No, Colonel, this is far more important. I have a question to put to you. Tania Kurbsky was admitted to Station Gorky on January 25, 1989. Are you aware that she died there of typhoid on March 7, 2000?”

  Luzhkov looked stunned. “What nonsense is this?”

  “Not nonsense. The Putin file, the DVD, is all fake. A plot to persuade Alexander Kurbsky to follow the path you and the Prime Minister laid out for him.”

  Luzhkov shook his head. “She is there in the camp, she has been for years. I’ve seen her.”

  “On the DVD, and you know these kinds of things can be easily faked. Have you seen her in person? No, Colonel, because she did die on March 7, 2000, and I can assure you confirmation of that fact is in Station Gorky’s files.”

  “So Kurbsky has done everything for nothing?” Luzhkov said hoarsely.

  “I’m afraid so. It’s a good thing he’s not standing here in my place. He’d probably shoot you.”

  “But I didn’t know, I swear it.”

  With a certain pity in his voice, Bounine said, “I actually believe you. There’s one more thing you should know, however. The man in the black hood who saved Blake Johnson? It wasn’t Dillon after all. It was Kurbsky. He couldn’t stand the idea of someone else being shipped off to that same terrible place as his sister. I’ll leave you to think about what that all means and what his mood is right now. Oh, and I think you’ll find that by now, Ferguson and Roper have discovered that Kurbsky’s defection is false. Their mood probably isn’t much better.”

  He turned and walked out.

  DILLON AND MONICA drove down from Cambridge and made straight for Holland Park, where they were soon joined by the Salters and then Roper.

  “This is a right carry-on we’ve been hearing,” Harry said. “You’re saying that Kurbsky saved Blake Johnson from being kidnapped by Luzhkov’s lot and shot two of them up?”

  “Yes, there’s no doubt about it. It was definitely Kurbsky, because he got a knife wound in the left arm and Katya found him bleeding above the garage in Chamber Court.”

  “Well, all I can say is he’s certainly done Blake a favor, and no bleeding mistake,” Harry said.

  “And that’s not all,” said Roper. “I think he was the one who knocked off Shadid Basayev and his minder in that cemetery in Mayfair.”

  Monica said, “But why would he do that?”

  “Basayev was a Chechen general, a monster of epic proportions. He butchered people left, right, and center. Amongst them were men under Kurbsky’s command, tortured unspeakably. I think Kurbsky’s been under a lot of stress, and I think I’ve discovered why. He always believed his sister was wounded and then died in the rioting in Moscow in 1989, and was buried in a place called Minsky Park. Tapping away at my computer, I discovered she was secretly sentenced to life imprisonment in the Station Gorky gulag in Siberia. And she died there in 2000.”

  They had been unaware o
f Katya standing in the doorway behind them, listening. She said now, “I’m afraid there’s much more to it than that.”

  At the same moment, Charles Ferguson appeared behind her, just arrived and unbuttoning his coat. “What’s all this, then? Can anyone join in?”

  ROPER BROUGHT HIM up to scratch, and Ferguson said, “It’s an incredible business. Katya, as I was coming in, I got the sense you had something important to add.” He turned to her. “Go on, my dear, we’re listening.”

  “He believed the lie fed to him by his father that his sister was in that grave in Minsky Park, and you told me how sorry you were to have to tell him she’d been sentenced to life imprisonment in Station Gorky. He already knew that; he’d been told only a couple of months ago that she was still alive, and that he could earn her release by making a false defection that would introduce him into the center of British security-you people. It was by presidential decree, and he was shown a doctored DVD to prove she was alive.”

  “Oh my God,” Monica said.

  “Everything, from meeting you in New York, Monica, to all that happened later, was like following a script. Those three GRU men on the train to Brest were not informed that their masters wanted him to defect. The men were ordered to kill him if he tried to. He was blackmailed, pure and simple. He killed Basayev because the Chechen was a monster who butchered his friends. He saved Blake Johnson because, although he was supposed to be under Luzhkov’s orders, he couldn’t bear to see another human being buried alive in Station Gorky.”

  There was a moment’s silence, and Harry said, “Why is it I think of cheering for the guy?”

  Ferguson said, “Where is he now, Katya?”

  “He received a nasty stab wound as a result of the Johnson affair, and he’s gone off somewhere. To bury himself in London.”

  “Tell him to come in.”

  “I have.”

  “Good.” Ferguson got up and turned to Roper. “The computer room, and I’d be obliged if you’d get me Luzhkov. The rest of you are welcome to listen.”